Spoilers: none for Series 2
To finish the 221B week, a couple of additions to Blooms84's wet!Lestrade festival
.When I became a man
The rare people who got close to the Holmses could easily spot their deprived childhood. Not materially, of course, but there had been little fun allowed to intrude in their parents' calculated plans to propel their sons to the top. Greg knew now that the eight-year-old Mycroft hadn't been allowed the lightsaber he craved, just as John regretted that the prepubescent Sherlock hadn't got the urge to play with guns out of his system.
Tacitly, John and Greg had decided to remedy this, to allow them the treats they'd missed as kids. It had to be kept secret, naturally. Scotland Yard would have laughed at Sherlock reconstructing crime scenes from Lego, though it was no dafter than making a model of the Large Hadron Collider. And Mycroft's failed attempts on a scooter were definitely classified material.
Unfortunately, today's experiment would be harder to hide, Greg thought, as he squelched his way back down Baker Street to work. His soaked shirt stuck to him, as the water from his soggy trousers ran down his shins to pool in his socks. He'd have to claim he'd fallen in the Thames again and get the normal jokes from Donovan and Anderson. But better they believed that than they ever guessed that Mycroft and Sherlock had just discovered the simple delights of the water bomb.
Desert Island Discoveries (Rating 12)
(Note: inspired by Mark Gatiss' appearance on Desert Island Discs)
Mycroft Holmes was the most indispensable man in the country. He received 450,000 Swiss francs a year, remained a subordinate, had no ambitions of any kind, and knew he would receive neither title nor honour. He desired none, of course; though he would rather have liked to appear on Desert Island Discs.
For years he had refined his list of records, just in case Sue Lawley , or now Kirsty Young, should call. He'd pondered how much Mozart was too much, whether Sibelius would suit the tropics, if he could somehow squeeze in one Coward song. The book too was tricky: would Chekhov or Dostoyevsky best suit his mood? But his luxury had always stayed constant – a bath with ample hot water.
It was odd that recently, as he fell asleep each night, he no longer bothered rehearsing his witty insights into his record choices, the delicate, indiscreet anecdotes about his career. Instead, he now found his mind skipping right to the end, to discussing how he would cope on a deserted island. As he cheerily admitted to Kirsty that his ideal tropical paradise was now slightly less solitary, that he planned to find his own Man Friday. That there was now not only hot, fresh water, but a grinning, naked detective inspector in his imaginary cast iron roll top bath.